


The Ink won't spill

by NutmegNuisance



Series: Fëanorian week 2021 [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fëanor is a good dad, Fëanorian Week 2021, Good Parent Fëanor, he really does love his sons, let them have happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 15:29:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30057612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NutmegNuisance/pseuds/NutmegNuisance
Summary: “And what were you doing out of bed?.” the drawing was not even close to being finished, but he could make out the shape of three figures roughly traced out. The page had been smudged, and looking back at his son, who looked more awake and ashamed of being caught out of bed, he saw a black mark on the left side of his chin. He must have fallen asleep drawing then.          “ pillows are much more suitable to lay our heads on than half-finished drawings.”
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Sons of Fëanor, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Nerdanel & Sons of Fëanor
Series: Fëanorian week 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2211249
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	The Ink won't spill

The clinking of glass vials and pots is unusually loud, for it is the quiet of the morning, and the rest of the world was slow to start the day. 

Setting the many ink pots down on his table. The one in the study, not the forge, for that was a dangerous place for an elfing to be in, he gathered up the papers he had been writing his latest design ideas on and put them in a neat pile, out of reach from little hands. 

Taking a fresh sheet of paper and selecting an inkpot to sit beside the paper, ready to use, he set off down towards his son’s room. 

His wife preferred stone as her canvas, but the carvings she had worked into the door and its frame were beautiful, painting stories in vivid imagery. Fëanáro found himself lost in the story and was unsure how much time had passed though it must not have been a lot for Nelyafinwë was still sound asleep. 

Opening the door, he found his son asleep, not in his bed but in his chair. Beside him lay an uncomplete drawing that had not been there when he was sent to bed last night. 

Gently peeling off the blanket draped over his son, he grasped the small shoulder and lightly shook it until bleary eyes came into focus. Confusion flickered into tired happiness as the gaze of his son was set upon his face.

“Atto,” he slowly sat straighter up and yawned, for it was earlier than he was used to getting up, and he stayed up far later than atto and ammë would find acceptable. 

Before his son could get another sleepy word in, he picked up the paper that had been beside his son but had flown down during the removal of the blanket and now laid rest at Fëanáro’s feet. 

“And what were you doing out of bed?.” the drawing was not even close to being finished, but he could make out the shape of three figures roughly traced out. The page had been smudged, and looking back at his son, who looked more awake and ashamed of being caught out of bed, he saw a black mark on the left side of his chin. He must have fallen asleep drawing then. “ pillows are much more suitable to lay our heads on than half-finished drawings.” 

“I stayed up waiting for you to say goodnight.” his face flushed, embarrassed about being reprimanded by his father. “ ammë said you would tell me a story.” 

Placing the drawing carefully on the side table, he gathered his son in his arms for a hug. “I was too engrossed in my work, I am sorry.” he pulled away and looked his son in the eyes. “ would you like me to tell it to you as we work this morning?.” 

A thoughtful look took over the Elflings face for a brief moment before a sharp nod, and a hand reached out to hold his father’s hand. “ can we have peaches for breakfast too?.”  
Agreeing, he sent Nelyafinwë ahead to his study while he got a bowl of peach slices for the both of them and a glass of water for his son. Nelyafinwë had expressed interest in his father’s writing and was already accomplished in penmanship for his age. 

When he entered his study, The red-haired Elfing had already pushed a stool to the edge of the table and had managed to climb up. Spotting his father his face split out into a grin, and he spun around to face forward, almost falling off when the top of the stool abruptly stoped. 

“It used to go all the way around.” the statement was posed as a question.

Setting the two bowls down, he readjusted his son so he was centred on the stool. “ it did. I’ll fix it this evening. Now shall we?” pushing the paper he had set out before towards his son, he opened a drawer and pulled out three writing utensils. 

“ a while ago, you said that using a quill hurt, did you not?”. He still didn’t understand what his son meant by that statement, but it had come out while Nelyafinwë was drawing in the gardens, and Nerdanel worked on her latest sculpture. 

Fëanáro winced as small hands wiped peach juice on their owners’ clothes, and he scolded himself for not bringing a cloth along with the peaches. 

“ yes.” 

“How so?.” he thought he had an idea of what was going on. After the complaint of pain, Nerdanel and Fëanáro went to get their son’s hand checked out from the local healer, but nothing was amiss. 

Scrunching up his face in thought, Nelyafinwë answered. “ it feels like when I fell and scraped my hands against the tree bark. But it doesn’t sting.” unsure in his answer; he began to kick his legs against the stool. 

Understanding what his son meant by his statement, he picked up a long slender metal tool and dipped it in ink. “I think your hröa is upset with normal quills.” handing over the new tool for his son to take, he explained more. “ quills are much too scratchy anyway, go ahead try to draw something.”

He waited with bated breath to see if his newest creation worked. Watching the way it fit perfectly in his son’s small hand, a sense of pride flowed through him not only that the new invention worked, creating smooth lines though a bit thicker than that of a standard quill. But at seeing his son’s glowing face and oh so beautiful penmanship. 

“ it doesn’t hurt!” Giving his father a big smile he bent over the paper and focused on whatever the elfling had decided to draw. “ are all atto’s magic like you?.” The question was so earnest it both warmed Fëanáro’s heart and sent a spark of amusement through him.  
“I have no magic.” but it fell deaf on the child’s ears, so concentrated on his drawing already. Content to sit and watch his pride and joy at work, he took out a small empty book and started to write notes on his new creation’s performance, sketched out new designs and possible fixes and improvements he could make. It already proved to be better than the quills, for Nelyafinwë was still drawing and not glaring at the paper with silent, frustrated tears. Yes, the hours he spent working on the new writing tool were definitely worth it.

Eating his peach slices, he moved the glass of water closer to his son so he would remember to drink it. 

“Atto?”

“Yes?”. His son had stopped drawing.

“ the ink runs out faster than quills do.” 

Smiling at his son, he pulled out his notes. “ good eye. I noticed that too, and I was thinking of adding a chamber into the tool’s center. So you can fill it with ink and take it anywhere with you and not have to worry about bringing an inkpot.” it would be a lot cleaner with an elfling, too he mused. 

“I think I’m done for now if that’s alright.” tucking a strand of red hair behind his ear, he looked into his father’s eyes for confirmation. 

“ yes, go see and if your ammë’s awake.” he held Nelyafinwë’s hand as he jumped down from the stool. “I’ll get the stool fixed, so next time you can turn all around.” 

Nodding, he held his arms up for Fëanáro to pick him up. Lifting him into his arms tiny arms squeezed his neck. “ thank you Atto, I love you.”

“I love you too.” setting him down and sending him away to find his mother, Fëanáro turned to look at the drawing. A soft smile crept along his face as he saw that Nelyafinwë had drawn their small family of three. The likeness was impressive, and Fëanáro knew he needed to make many different sizes of the new tool so his son could work to the best of his abilities. 

His wifes angry yell penetrated the calm that had surrounded his study for the first time in a while. “ Fëanáro!. Why is Maitimo still in his sleepwear?. And why is it covered in peach juice?.”

**Author's Note:**

> did Fëanor create pens just for his son's comfort?. possibly but hey. any chance to make something he will take. I'm imagining Maedhros around 11ish??? idk.
> 
> this is my first Silmarillion work I have posted in a long time. hopefully, I won't delete this one


End file.
